Of Migraines and Mates
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: Billy suffers migraines, but maybe it's not so bad.


Title: Of Migraines and Mates

Disclaimer: I do not own Chaos.

A/N: Very random and utterly gratuitous h/c ficlet I wrote ages ago for **lena7142**. Beta given by **postfallen**.

Summary: Billy suffers migraines - but maybe it's not so bad.

-o-

Billy's head was throbbing.

In truth, this wasn't an altogether unusual sensation. Usually it was incurred after a long mission with extended periods of not sleeping and perhaps a head injury or two. He preferred it when said throbbing was a direct result of copious amounts of alcohol and accompanied by blissful amnesia.

But tonight, Billy had no such luck.

Because Billy's head was throbbing, a deep, keening ache, originating behind his eyes and permeating through his skull, pounding through every hair follicle until he felt like his head might actually be disconnected from his body. Every movement was torture, and the simple act of breathing exacerbated his condition until he wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep forever.

There was no mission. There was no bad guy to chase, no report to file. Billy hadn't touched a drop of alcohol, and coffee only made it worse.

Then, there was a knock at the door.

It probably wasn't a particularly vigorous knock, but the rapping drove deeply into his skull, throbbing until he thought his eyes might pop out. In agony, he ducked his head, squeezing his eyes shut despite the already dimmed lights and securely pulled blinds.

"Billy?" Michael called, voice echoing, resounding through Billy's psyche with the intensity of a thousand knife points. "You ready to go?"

Billy grimaced, but could make no reply. He'd lost track of time after the throbbing had pulled him from his sleep.

"Billy," Michael said, more pointed now. "I'm going to come in—"

Bracing himself, Billy tucked himself inward, pressing against the couch cushions in desperation. He knew Michael had a key, and even if he didn't, the lock wouldn't be much of a problem. And with no answer, Michael had every right to come in; Billy expected it.

But the thought of someone opening the door, disturbing the tenuous silence—

The lock clicked and the door opened. Billy felt the air particles move, assaulting him as he moaned. One step, two. Michael paused.

"Billy?" he asked.

Billy whimpered, refusing to open his eyes.

Michael understood. His movements went still, his voice dropped. "Migraine?"

Billy managed a small nod.

There was a hesitation; a silence. "Did you take something for it?"

Billy shook his head, just a little.

This time, there were footsteps, careful and quiet across the floor. Billy heard the cabinets in his kitchenette squeak, a glass set on the counter, a bottle of pills being opened. The water ran and the footsteps resumed, halting just short of him.

"Here," Michael said.

Billy didn't respond, didn't move; focused on breathing, steady and careful.

"You know it'll help," Michael said, words sparse, tone gentle. "If nothing else, to help you sleep."

Michael was right, of course. Michael was always right.

Reluctant, Billy cracked open his eyes, squinting against the haloed glare of the lamp. It took him a moment to focus on Michael's hand and the two small pills. Shakily, he reached out, accepting the pill and stuffing it obediently into his mouth. When Michael handed him the glass, he swallowed, closing his eyes and holding the cup back out.

Michael took it and Billy let himself melt into the cushions, trying to convince himself to relax. He took a deep breath, then another. On the third, he let himself go limp and he barely heard Michael's footsteps as they crossed the floor again, turning out the lamp. Michael lingered, just behind the couch, but he didn't touch Billy.

He didn't even speak.

Instead, he continued toward the door. When it closed behind him Billy exhaled, willing himself to effuse into the darkness, to just let go…

When he woke hours later the pain was distant, replaced by a pervasive ache that made his neck stiff and his eyes scratchy.

He didn't know what time it was, but he must have slept for a while. Because he was no longer alone.

Indeed, Michael was back, seated on a chair, legs propped up. "You were pretty out of it," he reported.

Billy scrunched up his face, trying to sit up with some difficulty. "It was one of my worse ones."

There was a noise from the kitchen, and Casey strode into view. "I'd say so," he grunted in disgust. "Michael dragged us here after work and you've done nothing but sleep for an hour."

Billy grimaced, swallowing. His throat was dry, his tongue cottony.

Rick came out of the bathroom. "Hey!" he said. "You're awake."

"So it would seem," Billy said. He looked from Rick to Casey to Michael again. "Though I'm a bit perplexed as to why you're all here."

Michael shrugged. "We told Rick about your migraines."

"And the kid decided that we needed to check up on you," Casey said disdainfully.

Rick smiled, coming around to sit on the couch. "My mother used to get them," he explained. "Sleeping it off was always the best thing, but proper hydration and nutrition afterward made a real difference."

"Two things we can't trust you to do for yourself," Michael said.

"Though the takeout's cold," Casey said. "And I ate all the vegetarian eggrolls while waiting for you."

Billy straightened a bit more, feeling the tension ease, the aching abate. It wasn't gone, but it was better.

Michael rolled his eyes and Rick gave him a bottle of water. Casey passed the food, and Billy smiled.

Missions came and went; migraines were unavoidable, fleeting things. But friends like these – were hard to replace and would never leave.


End file.
